


Like the Songs

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe- Smallfolk, F/F, Femslash, It started out fluffy and then ended up being tragic, Margaery can't sing, That one where Sansa is a traveling singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:39:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sansa isn’t born a noble and ends up as a traveling singer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Songs

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how this happened.
> 
> Also, If you're interested in any of the other Starks' stories in this verse, feel free to ask. I have most of it worked out. I just didn't work them in because I got carried away with this particular arc.

By the time that Sansa is sixteen years old, nearly all of the boys in Wintertown have asked for her hand. She supposes that she should be flattered, at least that’s what everyone tells her. Jeyne tells her that she should be ecstatic, but Sansa finds this funny coming from a girl whose only proposal came from Sansa’s brother, Robb, a boy that she loves.

People tell her that she is as pretty as a highborn lady, and that her voice is as lovely as a bird’s. She’s always had her head caught in the songs, and she’s sang them better than anyone else in Wintertown. Sansa doesn’t want to marry a village boy that she doesn’t even know, though, not when there is an entire world out there, full of gallant knights and handsome princes, gorgeous princesses and lovely landscapes. She wants to see what her songs speak of before she dies.

* * *

 

 

She’s not sure what it is that she wants when she packs her bag that chilly autumn night. She has a few vague reasons floating about inside her head: the dreams of an adventure, her songs, escaping the marriage proposals, but the main reason is simply a gut feeling. The thatch roof still smells vaguely of mold from the rain the past night. Her family gathers to see her off, and Sansa fears, to try to talk her out of her endeavor. She has her retort ready.

“Jon’s been at the Wall nearly a year now,” Sansa will say, “and no one thought that it was too dangerous for him to leave.” But surprisingly, no one questions her. No one tries to talk her out of her crazy scheme. Bran just nods.

Rickon says, with the certainty that every young child has of his dream, “I bet I’ll run into you when I’m a hedge knight.” Robb gives her a fur-lined cloak that he’s made. Surprisingly, Arya is the one who offers her the most encouragement.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, “I think you made the right choice.” Her mother, her face somewhere between disapproval and love, hugs her daughter tightly. She slips the firm hilt of a dagger into her daughter’s hands.

“This was your father’s,” she says softly. Sansa nods numbly as she grasps the hilt of the dagger tighter.

* * *

 

 

Most of her castle stops pass in a blur. Riverrun, Golden Tooth, and Goldengrove are all gorgeous, and the lords and ladies of the court favor Sansa and her singing, but it is not until she arrives in Highgarden that she thinks she has stumbled upon something magical. She had found acclaim during her travels, but in Highgarden, Sansa thinks she might have found something straight out of the songs.

* * *

 

 

Highgarden is something unlike all the rest of the castles that she has seen. There seem to be layers upon layers of white marble walls, and the castle looks as though it’s made of clouds. Vines snake around the columns that make up the entrance to the palace. Sansa walks slowly, almost reverently, through the castle gates.

 

She follows a well-known Highgarden bard, but she doesn’t worry. He didn’t seem a terribly hard act to follow. Sansa smiles to the court, the sly half smile that leaves audiences wondering what she’s really thinking and sings a soulful rendition of _The Last of the Giants._ She exits the front of the hall, but hears footsteps behind her.

"I’ve been listening to singers all my life," Lady Margaery tells her, "but I’ve never heard that song before."

“I learned it from a singer back in Wintertown,” Sansa tells her. _The Last of the Giants_ was a popular ballad North of the Wall, but nearly unknown South of Wintertown. Sansa won over many highborn lords with the strange, mournful ballad. She supposes it isn’t strange to win over a lady with it.

"We’ve never had a woman singer before," Margaery muses with a quirk of her lips, "I would like it if you’d stick around." There’s something about the way she says it, as if a home and a job aren’t the only things that she’s offering that makes Sansa’s heart flutter. Lady Margaery smiles at her, a sly smile that makes her stomach do somersaults, and she suddenly understands why none of the village boys’ marriage proposals ever seemed appealing to her.

“I think that I will,” Sansa replies, the words heavy in her throat. Margaery smiles at her again, and Sansa’s heart melts.

* * *

 

 

Lady Margaery helps Sansa assimilate quickly into her group. Her cousins love Sansa and her songs, and she quickly starts to feel at home at Highgarden, enough that she feels she might never leave.

 

Eventually, Margaery asks her to play bedmaid, and Sansa doesn’t find herself opposed to the idea.

 

Sansa isn’t exactly certain how it happens the first time, in the candle-lit confines of Margaery’s bedroom. She grabs Sansa by the arm, swift as a shadowcat, and she kisses her hard on the mouth. And Sansa gets lost in her lips and her lust and doesn’t find herself regretting anything at all.

 

It happens again, and again, and again and soon a feeling warm feeling in Sansa’s heart starts to accompany the shear attraction that she felt at the start. There is a moment when Sansa realizes that her feelings have ascended into a category far beyond simple butterflies in her belly, far beyond a bit of attraction. Sansa realizes that she loves her, and she does not know what to do with this information.

* * *

 

 

 

The sunshine lights one of the numerous upper levels gardens at Highgarden, and lights up Margaery’s hair, giving it an ethereal glow. Even as the winter days march closer, Highgarden’s autumn is still warmer than Wintertown’s late spring.

“It’s funny,” Sansa says, plucking an apple from the tree, “when I was little I dreamt of singing in lovely halls for mighty lords. Never dreamed I’d make it this far South, though.”

“Highgarden is a far cry from Winterfell,” Margaery says, though it sounds like a boast. Sansa laughs, and Margaery smirks, which is her normal reaction to having told a well-received joke.

“Did you ever get to visit the castle?” she asks her, and Sansa gets a momentary glimpse of how little the nobles understand the lives of commoners.

“Of course not,” Sansa laughs, “the Starks never invited us to dinner.”

“Oh,” Margaery says, with a hint of disappointment in her tone. Then, she completely changes course.

“It’s a good thing that you have come this far South,” she says with a sly smile.

“Why?” Sansa asks, lying her head down on Margaery’s bare stomach.

“It’s cold up North,” Margaery says, grinning as she places a rose in Sansa’s hands, “and winter is coming.” Sansa sends her a confused look, but Margaery just grins. She wonders if it’s some sort of inside joke. But then Margaery snatches the apple out of Sansa’s hand and takes a bite with a smirk. The comment is forgotten as Sansa runs to chase her through the gardens.

* * *

 

 

She almost feels self-conscious, telling highborn Margaery stories about her childhood in Wintertown. But the other woman smiles when she tells her about Arya’s skill for getting herself into trouble, and laughs when she tells her about the time that Bran got himself stuck at the top of a tree. Soon enough she’s told nearly half the stories that she can remember, and Sansa suspects that Margaery is nearly an expert on her family. But Sansa hears nearly as much about Margaery’s siblings and extensive array of cousins.

There are times Sansa isn’t sure which aspect she likes better, the emotional or the physical.

* * *

 

 

And there’s something about this forbidden love, as star-crossed as Naerys and her Dragonknight, that appeals to Sansa more than she would like to admit. The sneaking about and the touch of fear only seem to add to the romance, as they make love in Margaery’s large bed, sprawl out beneath the stars, or gather flowers for each other’s hair. Sansa feels as though she’s found what she left Wintertown searching for.

* * *

 

 

"You need a surname," Margaery tells her one day, as they lie side by side on the soft grass beneath the sunshine.

“Don’t have any right to one,” Sansa says. She doesn’t even have a right to Snow, not like Jon does. He was never particularly fond of using it, but he did have a right to it, the way that all bastards did. Sansa was certain that she didn’t have a drop of noble blood running through her veins.

“I meant you could make one up,” Margaery says with a roll of her eyes.

“How about Rose,” Margaery says, a smirk gracing her lips, “Sansa Rose.”

“Sansa Rose,” Sansa says softly, “I like it.” And if the reason that Margaery suggests it is more possessive than romantic, Sansa isn’t sure that she cares.

* * *

 

 

Margaery Tyrell has hair that curls like bramble bushes and warm brown eyes that seem to glow in the candle light. She runs her hands over Sansa’s back, long and slender fingers ghosting over sensitive flesh. Sansa smiles at her before seizing her lips in another kiss.

* * *

 

 

“I loved a maid as red as autumn,” Margaery sings into her ear, her voice low, raspy and untrained, “with sunset in her hair.”

Sansa laughs teasingly, nuzzling her way into Marg’s hair.

“It’s a good thing that I do the singing,” she says with a teasing lilt to her voice.

Margaery laughs her seductive little laugh and says, with a look of pure hunger in her eyes, “Sansa, I can think of better things for you to do with your tongue.” Sansa can feel herself blush, but stifles a laugh as well before Margaery digs a hand in her hair and kisses her on the lips. Seduction is a strange and beautiful beast.

* * *

 

 

 “I’ve always wanted to be queen,” Margaery tells her softly,  conspiratorially one night. Margaery’s hair sprawls softly across Sansa’s stomach, like a brown rose. Light pours into the room through the drapes as Margaery burrows into Sansa’s soft stomach as if it were a pillow.

“Alla says that the prince is cruel,” Sansa says, running her fingers through the other girl’s hair. She doesn’t even mention the implications for them. If that were to happen, they could not continue to see each other. The penalty for sleeping with the queen is death. Sansa does not understand why Margaery would be willing to sacrifice what they have for a pretty piece of metal to set atop her head.

“You don’t understand,” Margaery tells her, “to nobles, power is everything.” But to Sansa, a girl who has never had any power, it seems an empty thing. It does not seem to be worth sacrificing her happiness and safety for. Margaery, however, is a woman of many peculiarities. Sansa almost wishes that she didn’t love her.

“My grandmother’s going to make it happen,” she says, though it sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself as much as Sansa.

 After a deep breath, she reasserts, “I’m going to be queen.” Sansa takes comfort in this. Perhaps Margaery is only trying to fool herself. Perhaps the crown is out of her reach, and they can remain in Highgarden forever.

 _Or perhaps,_ a voice within her whispers, _it is you who is trying to fool yourself._ Sansa tries to ignore the voice, and nods her false assent to Margaery, who kisses her on the cheek for good measure.

* * *

 

 

King Robert Baratheon passes away after a hunting accident and his son, Joffrey, quickly ascends the throne. The events in King’s Landing seem so distant from Highgarden, until they aren’t.

“I’m betrothed to the king,” Margaery tells her softly one night. Her voice sounds calm, with a hint of flirtatiousness, the way that her voice normally sounds.

“Can we still do this?” Sansa asks her while she nuzzles into Margaery’s neck. She knows that they shouldn’t (can’t), knows that continuing will lead to her death, but she’s not sure that she could give Margaery up.

Margaery shifts their positions, until they’re looking face to face. Then, she puts one of her hands on Sansa’s cheek.

 “He can’t take you away from me,” Margaery swears, and she leans in for a kiss.

“I’ll be king,” Margaery tells her breathlessly with a nip to Sansa’s ear, “and you’ll be as good as queen.” Sansa curls up beside her, and wishes desperately that she could believe that.

* * *

 

 

The Red Keep is not as grand as Highgarden, but Sansa is unsure that any castle could live up to the magnificence of that palace. Highgarden has the beauty of its levels of gardens and resplendent white walls. It is unlike anywhere else Sansa has ever traveled, or perhaps she is simply biased.

 

The queen’s smiles are sharp-edged and don’t reach her eyes. Her are courtesies are as empty as the wind as she welcomes them to the Red Keep. The king has a look imbedded in his eye, sadistic and primal, that scares Sansa even more than the queen’s calculating eyes and sharp smiles. A household flame and a wildfire are both dangerous in theory, but a household flame most often remains contained. A wildfire consumes all in its path, indiscriminately, and does not have to worry about anyone stopping it.

Sansa sees the power the king holds, and by the Old Gods, Sansa fears.

* * *

 

 

Margaery smiles through all the wedding preparations, as if she cannot see the sick nature of the family that she’s marrying into. Either that, or she doesn’t care. Sansa isn’t sure which is possibility is worse.

 

 

The wedding ceremony is as extravagant as one would expect for the wedding of a king to a lady of a powerful noble house. Sansa has no method of comparison for the pomp, but as no one complains she assumes that is it satisfactory. The whole miserable affair goes off without a hitch, and Margaery makes her sing at the feast.

She supposes that it’s meant to be an honor, but it feels like an insult, singing about the love between a monster and her lady love. It feels like some sort of gross caricature of love and romance, and Sansa wants no part of it, even as she sings _The Seasons of My Love_ before an adoring crowd.

 

 

Margaery does not mention how the bedding went, and Sansa does not ask. For the next few months, they try not to speak of Margaery’s married life in bed. Life however, has a habit of creeping up on them, no matter how much they try to avoid it.

* * *

 

 

“Cersei Lannister is out to get me,” Margaery tells her, and it only confirms Sansa’s deepest fears: they will be caught. The queen is looking for slights, and Margaery certainly is slighting her son. Not even Sansa can deny that.

When they are caught, (and they will be caught) Margaery will have Loras to defend her. Sansa will have no one, the same as any lowborn girl. No matter how often Margaery calls her “Sansa Rose” it won’t make her a lady, and smallfolk always pay for their crimes, real or imagined.

* * *

 

 

Somewhere along the line, between the queen’s cold stares and the king’s fiery eyes, Sansa realizes that there is no romance in this. Sansa did not know danger before they left Highgarden, and they were no more star-crossed than any lovers before them. But now they are, like something straight out of the songs, and Sansa would do anything to buy back their halcyon days.

* * *

 

 

“The Old Gods have no power here,” Sansa says, and it’s really more an ironic observation than anything else. She remembers once, long ago, when her father had told her that. It was before Robb and Jeyne had said their vows before a heart tree, before her father had frozen to death on an extended hunting trip. It had been when Sansa was young and impressionable and wanted to travel the world, before she’d actually done it.

“Travel,” he’d told her, “see the world. But do not go South of the Neck. Our gods have no power there.”

“The Seven do,” Margaery tells her, as if that made any difference. Sansa sometimes forgets how much of a cultural divide runs between them, one that cannot even be bridged by love. There are some things that her lover will never understand, living with her Tyrell name as a shield.

Sansa lives with a noose around her neck, and now can only wait for someone to push her off the gallows. And now, she realizes that when that day comes that she won’t even have any gods to pray to.

* * *

 

 

Servant girls going missing becomes a regular occurrence, and Sansa has more than just suspicions that Margaery’s _husband_ has something to do with it. It seems it’s just another worry to dump into her melting pot.

"I’m afraid," Sansa tells her, though Sansa’s not even sure who she’s afraid for; there are so many people who need to fear. The castle’s serving girls, herself, Margaery, _the kingdom,_ she’s not even sure where to start. But she knows what it eventually waters down to: their relationship, the thing that has brought her so much joy and pain. The is not exciting and romantic the way the songs describe. It is terrifying, dangerous and toxic, and Sansa is beginning to wonder if it has been worth it.

“Sansa,” Margaery says with a quality of exasperated fondness, “everything will be alright.” The statement is so inaccurate and hubristic Sansa actually laughs aloud before the tears start to fall.

“They’re going to catch us,” Sansa says curling up into Margaery’s embrace, “we need to stop.”

Sansa loves Margaery, she loves her scent, loves her mind, loves her body, but she also loves living. She doesn’t want to die.

“I can’t lose you,” Margaery says softly into her ear, and Sansa loses what little resolve she had.

* * *

 

 

They are caught, the way that the star-crossed lovers always are. It is unclear how they are found out. Sansa suspects a rat, but she supposes it doesn’t matter much. Her death warrant is signed the moment the guards burst in on her with her head between Margaery’s legs. The loud shouts of guards echo through her ears as they seize her by the arms, and they drag both herself and Margaery out of her chambers and Sansa to the dungeons.

 

The dungeons reek of piss, mold and sweaty bodies and Sansa wonders vaguely if she’ll die down here in the darkness and the stench. She’ll never see her family again, never smell the Winter Roses, never dance about in the summer snows. She’ll never see Arya’s face when Gendry finally works up the courage to propose. She’s going to die, and frankly, she’s not certain her adventure was worth it (not certain Margaery was worth it).

There is no turning back the clock, though. And there is certainly no escaping her punishment. Smallfolk have no value to nobles. She was foolish to have forgotten that.                   

 

“I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair,” Margaery’s voice echoes in her mind in the darkness of the dungeons. She laughs as the air seems to thin, and laughs herself to sleep as she realizes that the noose has finally started to tighten.

* * *

 

 

Perhaps the songs will tell the tale of the little queen and her Rosy Bard, but Sansa suspects that history will erase her. The singers love a tragic love story, but the Seven have little love for sapphic affairs. But Sansa likes to think that her story will live on. It gives her a bit of closure, a semblance of immortality at the end of her life.

 

The sun shines brightly the day her execution finally comes. The king’s justice grasps his ax. Margaery looks to her, regret evident on her features, and then looks away. Sansa wants to scream at her, wants to shout, but it’s futile. Sansa is the price that Margaery has paid for her power. The spiteful part of Sansa simply hopes that Margaery will miss her when she’s gone, though the more sensible part of her knows that will be the case. She’ll be mourned, but not publicly. And, to her horror, she realizes that her family will almost certainly never learn of her fate.

She sends one more regretful look Sansa's way, and then turns her head, unable (too craven) to watch the fate she brought upon her lover (that her lover brought upon herself).

Margaery has left her to her fate. She supposes that she ought to accept it.

 

Sansa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Compliments make me blush and smile and continue to write, but constructive criticism makes me examine my writing more critically, which is also a good thing. 
> 
> I would appreciate either.


End file.
